Mercenaries R Us
by sweetdreams-sunnymornings
Summary: "It's my job, babe." Mercenary Ranger on the job-and in the media! He grants an in depth interview to a reporter - will the man of Mystery finally reveal his secrets? Babe/ hea. R & S are together. No Joe.
1. Prolog backstory

**A new story for a new year...**this takes place after Take a Chance and references events in that story. The Math Teacher takes place just before this story too, or about the same time. This is a Mercenary Ranger fic, it takes place in my Plum world/ story arc, tho it may be a smidge off continuity-wise.

Ranger and Stephanie are a couple. I don't think Morelli is in this at all, or just passes thru, maybe.** Babe, HEA implied.**

Standard fanfic disclaimers apply.

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><p><strong>Mercenaries R Us<strong>

**Prolog/ Backstory ~ ****Smile and Wave, Boys! **

_._

_Ranger_

Let me just say this—we did _exactly_ what we were paid to do.

I'm not a man who makes excuses, but I am going to go on the record here. Rangeman took a job, a tough job. It was offered to me because the regular military groups' commanders all said, _Sorry, Mr. President, we don't do suicide missions_. And when the man in charge looked perplexed, they probably handed him my card. They told him, _Call Ranger. He gets __**paid **__to do this shit._

So, yeah. I took the contract. And we did it all and we did it well; we extracted the American hostages—civilian aid workers, no less. We exfiltrated without further incident—because you know, the tangos [targets, terrorists] were all—um—_dead—_and we flew the rescuees to an undisclosed US military encampment where they were transferred to medivac choppers and flown first to an Air Force aircraft carrier in the Persian Gulf, then on to be treated medically and debriefed in Germany. After that they're not my problem, but let's assume the US government will fly them home for free in a day or two.

So, okay—all went well. Not a single American hostage, rescuer, or innocent bystander died or was even hurt.

Now we were flying in another helicopter, along with General XXXX whom we picked up when we dropped off the former hostages. The general acts as liaison for our regular ARMY covert ops; he is the man we refer to as That Jerkoff or That Jackass. Sometimes we call him the weasel, for short. Hah! General Weasel.

Anyway, he got in our Rangeman chopper, said not much, and we did our best to ignore him in return. The days when I jump up and salute these guys is long gone. And of course Weasel is scared shitless of me. Of us.

So we closed our eyes and went to sleep, the first real downtime we'd had since beginning this op three days ago. Yes I said _three days_. Time is money; I like things fast and efficient, get in / get out. I have a life now, you know. Hey I'm a married man! And I have a new baby daughter! The thought of my girls made me smile a little and I drifted off to sleep, only wakening a few hours later when the big chopper landed at the US military base in XXXX-istan. The sound of the rotors powering down to land woke me and my guys and we stretched and yawned, peering aimlessly out of the small tinted windows. Tank was closer to a window than me and suddenly his body went all stiff. He said, "Uh. Ranger. Rangeman, check this out." The other guys grabbed their rifles, while I leaned over Tank's bulk and took a better look.

What the fuck? Crowds. Of civilians….

The general cleared his throat and said, "As you may know the President is here in the Middle East visiting the troops."

_It __**is**__ an election year…._

I said, "And."

"And he is here at the base now! With his staff of course! To thank you!"

"Uh huh."

I don't want thanks; I want money, lots of money. I'm the guy who gets paid to do this shit, remember?

I silently eyed the general with disapproval.

Weasel stammered, "The President—ah—thought it would be a great—ah—press scene. Public relations coup. Um, ah—photo op. For him to greet you all…."

"The press is here?" I interrupted.

_The President called the foreign press corps? To take pictures Of Me?_

Shit, I told Steph I was gonna be in Atlanta. This desert hellhole didn't look at all like Atlanta to me. And it won't fool Steph for a second.

My entire crew was staring the general with displeasure. The Rangeman menace was palpable, you could feel the intimidation vibes. The Weasel paled but spread his hands and passed the buck. He said, "Look, Ranger, it's what the President wants, what his press advisor told him to do….Probably he doesn't understand…"

The man was babbling.

I said, "What part of covert black ops does the man not understand? I don't want my fucking face plastered all over CNN again, general."

He shrugged.

"What do you suggest, sir? Are you gonna fix this or what?" I pressured him icily.

Weasel said, "Just smile and wave, boys, just smile and wave."

Tank said, "Did he just call us _boys_?"

_sigh_

…

**I ducked under the slowing rotors** of my chopper and headed towards the President. He was nattily attired in a navy blue golf jacket with the Presidential seal embroidered on the chest, khakis, desert toned sneakers. Hairspray. Make-up. For the cameras.

I was dressed in faded light desert cammo cargoes, black boots and a long-sleeved black t-shirt with RMPMC-USA stenciled across _my _chest in big dark grey block letters. Underneath was a 4 inch by 5 inch grey on black USA flag. _RMPMC_ means Rangeman Private Military Corporation and it is there, on our shirts and body armor, along with the American flag, so my guys on the field in these 'stan places are not killed by friendly fire. I also was dirty and sweaty and had a 3-day beard going.

Need I add, no make-up?

So of course the entire press corps—reporters, photographers, cameramen, on-location talking heads—everyone instantly swung away from the President of the United Sates and focused on—me.

Eyes alert behind my black mirrored sunglasses I found the CNN live feed camera. And as directed, I smiled and waved. And I mouthed to the camera, _"I love you, babe."_

I hope Steph can read my lips because otherwise I'm in deep shit. I quit smiling and shook the President's hand.

…

**"I thought you were** in Atlanta, Ranger."

"I was there_." For half a day, on my way to….um._

"I came home from a hard day chasing skips, Ranger. Said hi to our little girl and Ella. Fed Rex, got a beer and some chips and some leftover guacamole…."

"Babe."

"…..turned on the TV. And there you were. Shaking the President's hand, Ranger. In Nowhere-istan, I guess."

"Steph…"

"Because it sure as hell was NOT ATLANTA GEORGIA, WAS IT!"

"…no…."

silence on both cell phones for a few beats…

I wasn't sorry. And I didn't exactly lie to her either..

_I refuse to apologize, this is what I do, it's my job. She __knows__ it's my job, she __does__, even though we pretend I'm just a regular guy now. A daddy, even, huh? So was I supposed to just let those people die? Be tortured? Murdered by religious crazies? I don't think so_, I thought.

"Ranger?"

"Yeah."

"You looked—amazing. You looked—um—_really_ hot. On CNN."

"Excuse me?"

"Will you be home soon?"

"….sure."

"Don't shower or shave."

… ... ...

_Stephanie_

_Grubby, ARMY Ranger—yum._

She could feel his smile through the phone, over the thousands of miles separating them, his ESP as sharp as ever.

"Babe."

**tbc**

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><p><strong>Reviews are great, thanks for taking the time.<strong>

a/n General Jackass, The Weasel, Jackson is NOT the good general, General XXX, who liaises Rangman's deep covert, commando ops.


	2. Chapter 1 America's Sweetheart

**Mercenaries R Us**

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><p><strong>Chapter One -<strong> _**America**_'_**s Sweetheart **_

_**.**_

_**.**_

_[Stephanie]_

**"Batteries, I fuckin' need** batteries."

"Babe."

Ranger swerved into the lot of a CVS.

"Go get 'em, tiger."

"Ha ha, you're barrel of laughs, Ranger! You'd be thrilled if my stun gun was dead at the important moment."

Maybe I was a little irritable today. It was a beautiful day, a Saturday. My idea of fun was a picnic in the park or a walk on the beach. Ranger's idea of fun was to pick up a drunken smelly skip and roll him down his—the skip's, not Ranger's—smelly tenement stairwell.

Ranger said calmly, "I'll just wait here, babe."

I ran into the drugstore and looked for the electronics aisle. It was far far way. I trudged over and stood there looking for the right batteries for my stun gun, so many choices, so little of interest. I yawned, I sighed.

Next to me was the magazine rack and standing there was a group of teenage girls, maybe 14 or 15 years old. They were poring over the new People Magazine "Hundred Hottest Men in America" annual issue.

I could hear them giggling and squealing. _Jeez, was I ever that young….?_

"Omigod he is sooooo HOT!" one girl screamed.

"Oh, boy, what a cutie."

"Oh lemme at him!"

"Yum!"

Okay, the mag is fun but the guys tend to be kinda old, even the movie star guys like Matt Damon or Johnny Depp—all pushing 50. I mean, Richard Gere? Al Pacino? Maybe my mom would lust after them, but these teenies? I looked over at the rack of magazines to get a glimpse.

_Omigod_ just doesn't really do it for me. I stood there gasping like an idiot. The cover of the magazine had a photo of—Ranger. The headline above his wonderful face said, "US Military's VERY Special Forces!". Below his face it said, " # 1 Hottest Guy Ever!" .

When my vision cleared I reached around the girls and picked up a copy of the magazine. One girl smiled at me and said, "Isn't he just, like, um, the hottest guy you've ever seen!"

I nodded my agreement, still speechless.

Because yeah he is but I never expected this. The photo on the cover was from a recent "post-op" news conference in some un-named country, Ranger being lauded—applauded—by our current President. Ranger got caught on camera smiling wide, all zillion watts and America swooned. CNN got to calling him the soldier with the million dollar smile.

Poor Ranger. It was hard to believe but he had actually allowed himself to be filmed on CNN and photographed by all the major print media, maybe because the President wouldn't take no for an answer, maybe for a joke, just to amuse himself. Or maybe to let his crew get credit for going in and doing a scary job no regular US military group had dared to do. Ranger said it was for free advertising, but I was pretty sure that was a fib. He needed more business and more money like he needed—well—this.

I flipped open the magazine. There he was again, a full body shot. And what a body it is! He wore his camouflage cargoes, black t-shirt, diamond earrings; he was actually frowning a little, he must have been really pissed. Another close-up-the now famous million dollar smile shot. More blurbs about the hotness of these undercover military operatives. Another rehashing of the suicide rescue mission. Needless to say I wasn't thrilled with the constant repetition of the word _suicide_.

I turned the page…..

The caption read: "Hotties 1, 2, & 3 !"—the shot of Ranger and his brother Anthony and another guy who had managed to remain anonymous, somewhere in the Middle East, getting in a (new, shiny, expensive) black Hummer that was parked on the desert runway. The guns! The faces! The bodies! The—attitude!

Then: a great shot of just darling, adorable Anthony, looking very fine, a profile, all tan smooth skin, diamond earring and perfect features. There was a blurred area on his neck where his distinctive tattoo had been censored, but it was obviously him. (_Sigh_.) (Hey, what can I say!)

Then cropped photos of the other Rangeman guys getting off the helicopter: Tank—big and hot of course. Scowling furiously. Lester, smiling, looking like Ranger. Bobby Brown—gorgeous. Hal—hmmmm_._ He looked real cute, if slightly sunburned. Junior—young, black, hot. Vince—young, Italian, hot. Ram. Binky, Brett. The whole gang.

Last a wide angle action shot of all the men, all in their Rangeman desert combat (I can't believe I said that!) uniform of pale desert cammie cargoes, black t-shirts, Kevlar body armor. Diamond earrings and mirrored Oakley sunglasses. Some genius in the media had finally pointed out after the tape of the guys was released that the men could not possibly be regular US forces—because of their ACCESSORIES! The guys laughed about that for a week.

The copy credited _all_ the guys with heroism and hotness, saying the top ten were chosen because they had the clearest available pictures. Then the story ended with, again, Ranger and Anthony, looking at each other and laughing. Their resemblance was so perfectly absolute, at least to my eyes. They were beautiful, heart stoppingly wonderfully perfectly beautiful. _My guys_.

That caption read, _Can they just get any hotter! Hottest Man in America-Times Two_.

My cell phone played a hip hop ringtone. The teenagers all turned and looked at me. I smiled and shrugged.

"Yo."

"Yo yourself. Is there a problem, babe?"

"Uh, nooooo, not really."

"Need help with those batteries?"

"No! I'll be right out. Wait in the car!"

"Babe?"

"Trust me! Wait IN the car."

Ranger said, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." I was paying for my stuff by now. I saw Ranger's Porsche Turbo glide into the fire lane outside the drugstore.

The door opened and he stood up, holding his cellphone in one hand, Glock in the other hand, and looking over the car roof through the plate glass window of CVS. He rested his gun hand on the top of the car. He looked serious, Ranger often looks serious—but he looked HOT HOT HOT. He looked _exactly_ like the guy on the cover of People Magazine.

"Ranger! Trust me. Get in the car. I'll be right out."

I grabbed my stuff and ran outside, wrenched open the Porsche's door and flung myself inside.

Ranger looked at me and raised one eyebrow.

I brandished the People mag and said, "Low profile this, Ranger."

He took it from me and stared for a minute.

I watched his face, yes there it came—the slow smile, just the corners of his mouth curled up. Then it got wider. Now it's at the 200 watt stage…now all billion watts, all million dollars! The smile, the famous wide, beautiful, blindingly white, perfect teeth, gorgeous mouth, beautiful face—OMIGOD NOW HE'S LAUGHING smile! That smile. _You know_. The one on the that magazine cover. You've seen it, the entire world has seen it.

The teenagers bounced by the Porsche, still in a huddle, still swooning and giggling and lusting after...my husband!

_Jeez._

He said, "Babe."

I said, "Holy shit, Batman, you're the hottest man in America!"

Ranger sighed. But he kept smiling…..

**tbc**

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><p><strong>AN** CVS is a big chain drugstore that's all over the NE, in case anyone doesn't know what a CVS is….. r


	3. Chapter 2 Deja Vu All Over Again

**Mercenaries R Us **

_previously: I said, "Holy shit, Batman, you're the hottest man in America!"—_

_Ranger sighed. But he kept smiling….._

.

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><p>an Thank you for all the fun reviews and bookmarks etc! Really love hearing from everyine, thanks! sunny

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><p><strong>Chapter Two - Deja vu all over again<strong>

**.**

_[Stephanie]_

_The following Saturday….._

**I grabbed a copy of Newsweek** off the supermarket rack. I stared at the cover which _again_ had a photo of a man who had always claimed he preferred low profile. A man who loves his secrets. The man I was married to and who was parked outside the Stop and Shop, right this minute, blocking the fire lane with his (new shiny black) Porsche 911 Turbo. As usual.

There he was—Carlos Manoso, AKA Ranger. The photo was cropped to a head shot. Dark hair, dark skin, mirrored high-tech sunglasses. And the now-famous million dollar smile.

The headline below Ranger's face read: _**Mercenaries R Us?**_

I flipped inside. Last week it had been a People magazine spread with the title "America's Hottest", now this.

I leafed through the magazine. The article apparently was intended to be serious despite the humorous headline. I looked at the photos first. More of the rescue mission shots plus a photo of Ranger with a famous rap impresario, supposedly taken at this year's Grammy Awards. I was pretty sure Ranger was in Miami that night not at the Grammy's. But whatever.

The article read:

**The New Heroes of America's Covert Wars - Profile of a Mercenary**

**By John Rosen, investigative reporter**

**The daring and heroic rescue** of American Red Cross relief workers last month captured the attention and imagination of America and the world. The soldiers who participated in that mission were shown on a tape being greeted by our President at an undisclosed location in the Middle East. That episode followed the recently announced arrest in Miami of a long sought-after head of Colombia's drug cartel. In both instances, despite the top-secret nature of these and other operations, one name keeps turning up: Rangeman Private Military Corporation, LLC, AKA Rangeman Security. A security firm that in the world of covert ops is nicknamed: Mercenaries R Us.

Rumor has it that Rangeman's fees are high—often in the millions of dollars—but they always get their man. The firm's operatives are young men from US military Special Forces, I am told: Army Rangers, Navy SEALs; Delta Force operatives; covert assassins and SWAT trained snipers. Men trained to kill, with weapons or their bare hands. Men with very special skills.

US government agencies—Departments of Defense, Treasury, Justice, Homeland Security; CIA, NSA, DEA, FBI, Joint Task Force on Terrorism—the list of Rangeman's reputed clients goes on and on. There are whispered accolades: "Worth every penny." "Untouchable." "Awesome." But there is a deep veil of secrecy surrounding Rangeman and its founder and CEO. The word about Rangeman is passed in the corridors of black ops and spookdom: "Don't ask, don't tell."

But also: "Suicide mission? Call Rangeman. They get paid to do this shit."

This reporter was issued his own orders. I was instructed to find out what Rangeman is and who its leader is. Both identities have proved immensely elusive.

Rangeman Security is a privately owned corporation. It does not list street addresses on its income taxes and you won't find it in an ad in the Yellow Pages. In fact, Rangeman appears to have an unlisted phone number. The company is intensely private and secretive. Referrals are by word of mouth only. The firm's profile is low; its fees are high.

My curiosity was piqued. I tried to track down the owner of this firm. The CEO is one Ricardo Carlos Manoso. I asked around in law enforcement circles in NYC, Boston, Philadelphia. Lots of people know Manoso or have heard of him. He seems respected and even well-liked, especially in NYC where I often heard admiring comments about Manoso. But no one, not one person, was willing to give me any specific information on him. I thought, curiouser and curiouser. I asked to be put in touch with him and finally a connection of mine in NYC said that he would pass on my request. I asked for a phone number and the person laughed. _He'll call you_, I was told. _Maybe_. I asked if Manoso was a reclusive man. The answer, _Elusive, not reclusive….You'll understand when—if—you meet him._

A week or so later I got a call. I looked at the readout—cell phone with number blocked.

A man quietly said, "You wanted to talk to me?"

Of course I said, as you can picture, "Who is this?"

The voice said, "Carlos Manoso. What's up?'

I explained that I wanted to interview him. There was a pause then he said, "Give your name again and your editor's name. I'll call you back."

Later that day he did so, after apparently very thoroughly checking my credentials.

Manoso said, "Here's the deal. I'll meet with you as a courtesy to your publisher, with whom I am acquainted."

I noted the correct, precise grammar.

Manoso continued, "However I want to make it absolutely clear that you are wasting your time. I won't answer any questions. Before you accept an appointment, be sure you understand that. I don't want any hard feelings. I'm in the security business. Confidentiality is my stock in trade. Think it over. Call me if you decide to go ahead with this."

This time he gave me a phone number.

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><p><strong>Stephanie shook her head and<strong> turned the page…

tbc


	4. Chapter 3 The Interview

**Mercenaries R Us**

**.**

**previously: **"…Think it over. Call me if you decide to go ahead with this." This time he gave me a phone number.

Stephanie shook her head and turned the page…

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><p><strong>Chapter 3 - <em>The Interview<em>**

_[journalist pov] _

_. _

**The _Newsweek_ **article continued:

How could I not meet this man? Even if he didn't tell me much, what an opportunity. And so, one morning in a few weeks ago I found myself being ushered into the office of this very hard to find man.

Initial observations: No secretary. A guard at the main entrance of a discreet building in Trenton, New Jersey of all places. Another security guard to escort me to Manoso's office. The décor—high tech, yet plush. Sophisticated, classy. It said _Money, money, money_.

Manoso rose to greet me. He was not quite what I expected.

First impression: well-dressed executive with a firm handshake. Don't-mess-with-me eyes. Custom tailored suit, perhaps Armani, with black t-shirt. Average height, short well-cut hair. Dark complexion, racially mixed Latino. Anglo features. Very faint scent of expensive soap or cologne.

I looked closer and decided that the expensive tailoring probably disguised a very muscular body and perhaps some weapons. The diamond stud earrings were the only non-corporate touch that was readily visible.

As we got seated on the black leather sofas and designer bottled water was offered and served, my next thought was what an unusually good-looking man this is.

Manoso looks like a movie star playing a Wall Street executive. He is so handsome it was hard to take him seriously in those first moments. I found myself staring in disbelief. Despite having viewed the CNN tapes many times, I somehow had expected either a tough grey-haired ex-Marine or a ghetto gangbanger. The GQ cover model looks were a surprise.

The next thing I thought was that he is also very young. Late twenties, maybe 30 at the most. His eyes met mine and I shivered involuntarily. Carlos Manoso is an intimidating man.

This is what I recorded that morning.

I said- You seem to be very successful for someone so young.

Manoso- Is that a real question?

Journalist/ myself, the interviewer- No, no. Just an observation.

CM- (silence)

J- So tell me about Rangeman. What is it you do here?

CM- Rangeman supplies a variety of security services to private persons, businesses and other select clients.

J- By other clients, do you mean government clients? Are you a mercenary, as is rumored?

CM- Rangeman guarantees absolute confidentiality unless otherwise specified. I can't comment on the types of clients we serve.

J- But some are US government agencies?

CM- No comment.

Interviewer regroups.

J- Maybe you can tell me something about yourself. Where are you from? Are you married, kids? Where did you go to school?

CM- I don't discuss my personal life.

J- Were you in the Army? Your street name is Ranger…. Were you in the Army Rangers? Special Forces? Delta Force? Or?

CM- I was in the Army. I can't comment on the other questions.

J- What rank did you hold?

CM- No comment.

J- Did you fight in Iraq? Afghanistan? Bosnia? Somalia?

CM- Somalia and Bosnia were before my time. I was, maybe, twelve….

J- The other conflicts?

CM- No comment.

We went round and round. The man was polite but he definitely knew his lines. I tried coming from a different angle.

J- Are you an American citizen?

CM- (looking a bit amused) Yes, of course.

J- Where were you born?

CM- Born in the USA.

Did he intentionally quote Springsteen? I noticed he was finally lightening up just a little, and looking more approachable.

J- Can you be more specific?

CM- No.

J- What did you want to be when you grew up? Did you always dream of being a mercenary?

CM- I wanted to be a relief pitcher for the New York Yankees. I wanted to be a _closer_.

J- Were you good at baseball?

Thinking of his reputed Cuban background.

CM- Yeah, just like all 10 year old kids are.

J- Did you play a sport in high school?

CM- No comment.

J- How can you refuse to comment on what sports you played in school? Isn't that a bit—extreme?

CM-(pause)- I played every sport you can imagine, I was a typical kid.

J- Name your four favorites?

M-(pause) (sigh) Baseball. Ice hockey. Surfing. Golf.

J- Golf?

CM- No comment.

J- I can't help but notice that you are a very good-looking young man. Did you ever consider a career in the media? Acting or….?

CM- GQ covers?

Some people had sworn Manoso has ESP.

CM- (continuing) No, my mom disapproved, it wasn't what she wanted her son to be. I was always—sheltered?—no, insulated, I guess is the word, from that sort of thing. Plus it didn't interest me.

J- Do you think your mother prefers it that you are a _**mercenary**_?

CM- (laughs) No comment. Well she probably wanted me to be a doctor…. (still laughing).

I think, _This man has some smile…. He is amused, not insulted._ He has a truly stunning smile, think toothpaste ads. Crest Premium Whitestrips, anyone?

I ask- Are your parents living?

CM- No comment.

J- You seem to be a charismatic and intelligent man. Have you ever considered a political career?

CM- No.

I notice this is a flat No, not a No Comment. Manoso has a slight "you gotta be kidding" look on his face. I get the impression his clout may be extensive but is entirely behind the scenes as far as our government goes.

J- Let me ask you this, if I wanted to retain Rangeman's services would I find out more about the company?

CM- We would find out about _you_, you would not receive any information about me personally and only about the company as it pertained to your needs. If you were truly a potential client, I'd meet with you to decide if what we offer addresses your security needs. If not we would refer you to another security company that would be more appropriate.

J- You mean if, for example, I needed a burglar alarm you'd send me somewhere else but if I required a potential stalker, let's say, "removed" you might do that?

CM- No, we don't do hits for private citizens. You'd have to look elsewhere for your hitman and we don't refer for that. Perhaps you've been watching too many _Sopranos _reruns, Mr. Rosen. I assure you that is not what I do.

J- OK, sorry, go on.

I notice now that he is speaking a bit more that he has a very attractive voice and is quite soft-spoken. He has no detectable regional accent, no trace of Spanish or the ghetto. The overall impression is East Coast, educated.

CM- Then if it is mutually agreed upon that Rangeman can supply what is needed we discuss fees, can you pay them, do you want to pay them. I don't come cheap, but I'm good….Then you sign a confidentiality agreement so that nothing we do ever finds its way into a magazine article.

R- I see. Now, you said your firm does not do hits for private citizens. Does that mean you do so for, perhaps, governments? Or government agencies?

CM- No comment.

J- But, sir…

CM- Do I look like an assassin to you, Mr. Rosen?

J- Um…Yes?

CM- Is that a question?

J- Uh….

CM- And _**yes**_ is the wrong answer, you're supposed to say _**No**_.

I think, _Omigod, have I offended this man?_ I start to perspire.

Carlos Manoso sat relaxed and alert in his expensive suit, handsome face neutral. The man exudes an almost tangible aura of power and wealth and entitlement.

Manoso may or indeed may not be an assassin, but he is definitely not a hard-scrabble soldier or a gangsta from some urban ghetto. His almost-black Latino eyes are intense and serious, his manner assured and composed. Again I am impressed with his good looks, trying to imagine what it must be like to responsible for the deployment of a private army yet to be so young and so exotically beautiful.

The intimidating black eyes stop me from following up on that thought. Instead I pause and refer to my notes. Then I try a new line of inquiry.

_**tbc**_

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><p><strong>lol! You didn't really think Ranger was gonna tell this guy anything, did you! <strong>

**Thanks for reviewing!**


	5. Chapter 4 The interview Continues

**Mercenaries R Us_** —**_**

**.**

.

_**previously: **The intimidating black eyes stop me from following up on that thought. Instead I pause and refer to my notes. Then I try a new line of inquiry._

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><p><strong>Chapter 4 ~ <strong>_**The Interview Continues**_

_**.**_

_[Newsweek journalist POV/ article]_

_._

**J- I looked you up on all the usual** searches that are available. Your name just never comes up, it is as if Ricardo Carlos Manoso does not exist.

CM- Yet here we are.

J- How do you explain that there are no computer records about you, none at all?

CM- No comment.

J- Is Carlos Manoso the name you were born with?

CM- No comment.

J- Can you tell me anything about the arrest of Colombian drug cartel boss Alberto Alvarez?*

CM- No comment.

J- But Alvarez _was _arrested on your yacht, in Miami. By a Federal task force…? What was your participation, your involvement?

CM- I can't comment on that. And it wasn't my yacht.

J- Was that you and your men on the CNN tape that aired after the rescue of our Ambassador and his family last year? And featured in the media coverage after last month's rescue of the kidnapped relief workers? Your name was never released, but the President made abundantly clear that the man he greeted that day in the desert had been instrumental in the rescue operation.

CM- No comment.

J- How did it feel to lead what was essentially a suicide mission? A mission that the US military establishment supposedly declined to undertake, saying it was a hopeless risk?

Manoso looked at me hard and said- Do you really think it was me? Are you certain? Do you want to go on record that you're _sure_ it was me and my crew?

J- Um, no…but, well, it does look…You're unusually distinctive in appearance, you're very …

Perhaps I was a bit flustered by the confrontation.

CM- (silence)

J- Anything you want to tell all the Americans who admire you? All those kids who look up to the brave soldiers on that tape?

CM- I'd tell them the same thing I'd tell any kid. Stay in school. Don't use drugs. Love your family and be thankful you live in America. But that doesn't mean it was me on the tape.

R- Why did you allow CNN and the other media to film yourself and your men if you don't want to acknowledge the mission's veracity?

CM- I'm a mercenary.

I wondered if that meant he had been paid to allow the photo op with our President. But—surely not!

J- But…?

CM- One way or another, there's always a price to pay.

Carlos Manoso flashed the grin that suddenly gave a new meaning to the phrase _million dollar smile_. I gave up and asked my last questions of the day.

J- What make suit are you wearing, can I ask that?

CM- It's Armani _Coutura_, their private label. I like the tailoring.

He stood up, indicating our interview was over. And he pulled his jacket open showing me the custom cut of the suit, extra room for the shoulder holsters and two 9 mm Glock pistols he was wearing.

CM- Nice to meet you, Mr. Rosen. I hope this wasn't a total waste of time.

I thought _Yours or mine?_

I thanked Manoso for meeting with me and I was escorted out of the building. I drove back to NYC, thinking about the man I'd just met.

Do I believe it was him on the tape, leaning on that black Hummer, obviously in charge of the rescue mission that day? Shaking our President's hand? Smiling his trademark million dollar smile…..Yes I do, but I have no proof.

That April day I met a polite young man who told me as little as he chose. He allowed me see a part of him, just a glimpse of who and what he is. He let this reporter see the beautiful face and the sharp mind; he somehow conveyed his physical and military prowess just with his demeanor and attitude.

But there must be more…and I am sorry to say I never found it.

Do I think Carlos Manoso and his crew are just paid mercenary thugs? No, I do not. I think, I believe wholeheartedly that these men are truly heroes in America's fight for freedom.

And America needs its heroes.

_By John Rosen, for Newsweek_

…

_[Stephanie, present time, at the supermarket]_

**I sighed, still looking at Ranger's photo**. He _was_ as handsome as a movie star. I smiled_** —**_poor Ranger.

My cell beeped.

"Yo."

"Babe, what's taking you so long? Zoë needs those Pampers, she's getting fussy. I think she's hungry too and it's nap time."

"Her naptime?"

"No, ours, babe."

"I'll be right there. I just got distracted for a minute."

I paid for the Newsweek and the case of infant diapers and lugged it out to the curb.

Ranger popped the trunk and I put the diapers inside then slid into the car.

The handsome mercenary so vividly depicted in the Newsweek article was sitting behind the wheel of his expensive Porsche. In his arms he cuddled a tiny pink bundle of beautiful infant daughter. She looked just like him and when she saw me she smiled a toothless baby version of her daddy's smile.

She cooed.

He smiled, same smile as the baby's. Those dark, dark eyes, mocha latte skin….

I sighed with happiness, giving them each a kiss.

I said, "I'll put her in her baby seat, okay?"

Ranger handed the baby to me. I gave him the copy of _Newsweek._

"You made the cover again, Ranger."

He took it and looked at it, eyebrows raised. He shook his head.

He said, "Mercenaries R Us? Jeez. But at least they didn't call me America's hottie."

I smirked. "Oh yeah, you think? Wait'll you read the interview. This guy Rosen thought you were _**very**_ cute."

Sigh. From Ranger!

I said, "Maybe you'll be on _60 Minutes_ next."

His smile got bigger. It said, _I could rule the world. The only reason I don't already is that I've been __**busy.**_

_Gleeful_** —**__that's the word.

"_60 Minutes_?"

"It's a TV show, Ranger."

"Babe."

tbc

**A/N If you want to read baby Zoë's story and haven't done so, her story is in "Shelter from the Storm". **

***The Miami Job story is in work, not posted anywhere.**


	6. Chapter 5 Bud Lite

**Mercenaries R Us**

**.**

.

* * *

><p><em>previously: <em>Stephanie said, "Maybe you'll be on 60 Minutes next."

His smile got bigger. "60 Minutes, babe?"

"It's a TV show, Ranger."

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5 ~ <em>Bud Lite<em>**

_[John Rosen pov]_

_._

**The Newsweek journalist, John Rosen** walked into the crowded bar on 18th Street in Manhattan. He took a seat next to his old friend Eddie. Eddie was a TV news program talking head. He didn't go by "Eddie" when he was on the tube. He had to have _credibility._

Rosen ordered a Bud Light. When it came he clinked glasses—well, bottles—with his pal.

Eddie said, "Wow, man, you finally tracked down the elusive Mr. Mercenaries R Us guy! Think you could put me in touch? I'd love to have him on the show…."

The edition with Rosen's story had hit the news stands just that morning.

Rosen said, "I don't think he'd be a great interview, all he says is _no comment_."

Eddie seemed excited by the idea though. He asked, "What was he like? Was he scary, did your balls shrivel up? Does he have killer eyes? Did you think _armed and dangerous_? Tell me."

Rosen thought for a moment, then said, "Well, yeah, in a way he is a scary guy, but mostly all I could think of was how handsome the guy is. It was ridiculous, I couldn't focus!" He shrugged a little, looked embarrassed.

He went on, "I mean, there I was, a hetero, 40-something supposedly seen-it-all journalist and instead of asking him pointed, probing questions—shit, man, all I could think was_, Omigod, what is it like to look like you do? How does it feel to be a hundred—on a scale of one to 10? Is it hard to make men obey you, how do you control your crew…when you look like __**that**__? Do women fall all over you and beg? What's that like?...''_

Rosen gulped his beer, said, "And—_Do you even __**know **__what you look like?_ I was sitting there like an asshole thinking, _This man is __**beautiful**__._ He is gorgeous, Eddie. And then he'd smile…oh, man. It was very distracting.

"I mean, this guy, I gotta tell you, Eddie—he was something! Something else. Like I said, I'm not into guys and even I noticed the man is incredible. What's that all about? How can that be? Shit, life is so unfair."

Eddie was laughing a little, shaking his head.

Rosen said, "And _then_, when I was leaving, he—Manoso—said, "Most people are too polite to mention it to my face." Jesus, I about pissed myself. The guy does have ESP. _That_ was when I was really scared! Not to mention I felt like an idiot."

"So what happened?"

"Nothing, nada. I got the hell out of there."

Both men laughed ruefully. Then Eddie said, "He must be really wealthy to not have any interest in a Hollywood career. Actors make millions per movie, not something to scoff at."

"Yeah but he did. Politics too. It was like money was no object, like he was so rich he never had to consider cashing in on his looks. Never even came up on his personal radar screen."

"That's pretty rich. Is it true that the President had to pay him for that photo op?"

Rosen shrugged. Eddie said, ''So, what else?"

Rosen mused, "Well, for instance, the sports he said he had liked as a kid—kids from the ghetto may play baseball—'cause, okay, he'd be too short for basketball, I can see that—he's maybe six feet, my height—but a ghetto kid can't afford to play ice hockey, it's a very expensive sport. I checked. And golf! Do you play golf, Eddie?"

Eddie nodded sadly.

Rosen laughed, "Not good at it, my man? Anyway, I figure only country club-type kids play golf. Urban teenagers don't play golf, rural kids don't play fucking golf. What kinda preppy kid plays golf and grows up to be a hitman? It was surreal!"

Eddie said, "Well, and surfing. He grew up near a beach."

Rosen shook his head, "Too broad a category. He could come from Long Island or Florida or California. Maybe he's from Pebble Beach. Hilton Head. Cape Cod. Lotta places have a beach and a golf course."

The two men laughed again.

Eddie said, "I'd really love to have him on the show. Do you think he'd be willing to be on 60 Minutes?"

Rosen said, "You don't want that man on your show, Eddie. Your producer will give him your job!"

Eddie said hopefully, "Maybe he doesn't photograph well. Not everyone looks great on the screen." _Like I do_, he thought.

"Eddie, pal! Get real. You saw the CNN footage, didn't you? Manoso looks _great _on TV. He looks _fantastic_. The camera loves him! People Magazine called him the hottest man in America, just from those tapes."

"So you really do believe that was Manoso?"

"Oh yeah."

"Do you _really_ think the US government hires him and his company to do the hard jobs? They actually _pay _him to do the suicide missions? Or is he really a government agent? What?"

Rosen shrugged again. "No clue. It's a mystery. _Don't ask, don't tell."_

"Give me his number, John. Please?"

Rosen was a fast learner. He said, "I'll pass the request on. If he wants to talk, he'll call you."

A few days later, Edward Balington, prime time talking head and commentator for the TV news program 60 Minutes answered his cell phone. To his amazement, it actually had a readout and he read the name with surprise and excitement.

He said, "Thank you for calling me, Mr. Manoso."

"What can I do for you?"

The voice was neutral and polite, just like Rosen had described.

"Tell me, are you available for a segment on 60 Minutes? I'd like to interview you."

Silence on the other end of the call, then, "You gotta be fucking kidding."

Disconnect.

Somewhere out in the ether of cell phone land, Ranger was smiling the smile—and shaking his head in disbelief.

**tbc**

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for all the reviews and comments! Next chapter real soon! love. sunny<strong>


	7. Chapter 6 Local Heroes

**Mercenaries R Us**

**.**

**.**

* * *

><p><strong>Previously: <strong>_Silence on the other end of the call, then, "You gotta be fucking kidding."_

_Disconnect._

_Somewhere out in the ether of cell phone land, Ranger was smiling his million dollar smile—and __ shaking his head in disbelief._

* * *

><p>an: since Zoe is newborn in this fic and in my world [her world] she is four or five, this story obviously takes place a literary ''while ago", when the new Mets Stadium in NYC was indeed, new. 2009...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6 – <em>Local Heroes<em>**

**_._**

_[Ranger]_

**I shut off my phone and shake my head a little** to clear it. _This nonsense is getting totally out of hand,_ I'm thinking.

Antonio looks up from his scoped rifle and asks, "Everything okay?"

I nod, say, "Let's get back to work." Both Anthony and Lester stare at me because I am the only one standing around making pointless phone calls. I shrug a little and turn my attention to the view from the roof of this crummy seven-story parking garage in beautiful downtown Brooklyn, New York. The current job is not in some dusty exotic hellhole but in this quiet borough of NYC.

I pan my eyes carefully left to right. To the east, the Brooklyn Correctional Facility or lock-up. Behind us on Court Street are the local and federal courthouses and attorneys' offices; below us on busy, dirty Atlantic Avenue are the usual bail bonds storefronts—just like Vinnie's—and pawn shops. To the south and southwest, in typical NY fashion, the area changes radically and I can see the elegant brownstones and lofts of Brooklyn Heights and Cobble Hill—tree-lined historic streets and million dollar housing. In fact diagonally across the intersection, where a bank turned into a retail mall now stands, is the Revolutionary War historic site where George Washington and General Lafayette stood to command the Battle of Long Island. And far far off on the horizon is the lighted Statue of Liberty and the black empty hole where the WTC used to stand.

In New York we still notice the gap with the grief and anger of a recent tragedy. I direct my eyes due south again, along the eastern side of Court Street. And straight ahead of me is a quietly lower middle class neighborhood populated mostly with peace-abiding Muslims. This area has been a Middle Eastern enclave for maybe 50 years and in general it is safe and non-threatening. But sad to say, an Islamic terrorist cell has taken advantage of the neighborhood's reputation and have slipped in quietly to plan their fanatical revenge.

We have watched and waited here off and on for almost a week. Our intell is solid—these assholes were actually planning to drop a bomb on the new Mets Stadium on Major League baseball's Opening Day in April. The fact that the new stadium was largely funded by a bank that was majority owned by Arab corporations either did not matter to them or it never occurred to them.

Anyway, it seems our President was thrilled to be scheduled to throw out the first pitch for the Mets and thus the jihadists could wipe out two American icons with one attack. TV coverage would be extensive and this cell was planning to launch a missile attack from helicopters disguised as news or TV choppers—and it all would be broadcast to every American watching live TV. Well—everyone watching SportsChannel or ESPN. Who are hopelessly deluded die hard Mets fans. These tangos obviously are no geniuses.

Would such a plan work? I have no fucking idea. Would they get a chance to try? Um—no.

Now we settled into our positions, crosshairs lined up on the heads of the men in the dingy tenement eight blocks away. It was evening, the kitchen was brightly lit, the shades weren't drawn and they were sitting around the table, smoking and eating and I'm gonna assume plotting mayhem. I took a long calm breath.

…

_[Anthony]_

**_Here we are again_, I thought, doing the sharpshooter** thing, helping Ranger with another one of his _projects_. We are not in Iraq or Afghanistan, we're in Brooklyn! We are being backed up by NYPD's counterterrorism unit and Homeland Security. Not that we need them, but the cops have put up sawhorses to keep out the curious and to ensure we can work in solitude. Not sure what DHS is doing, besides writing Ranger a huge friggin' check for this little job.

Prob'ly we'd do this for free, you know? Cos—adrenaline junkies. That's what we are. I'm thinking Ranger really needs to settle down if he wants a life with Stephanie, if he wants to live to see his daughters grow up. But I guess Ranger would rather die than lead a safe, dull life, so I dunno….

Ranger finishes his phone call and he smiles but in a bad kind of way, like he's maybe pissed but won't admit it. I think, _No time for that now, my man, you gotta focus._

I ask, "Everything okay?"

Ranger nods but catches my thoughts too and frowns, snaps at us a little. This publicity shit is getting to him. I watch him closely and see with relief that he instantly gets back on task. He surveys our surroundings like a hawk searching for a rat. And he finds one. Or two, or three.

We lift our rifles almost in unison.

I look through my scope. Okay, got the baddie in my crosshairs. I hear Ranger's soft voice in my head.

He says, _Okay?_

I say, _10-4._

And hear my cousin Lester say softly, _10-4._

Ranger counts aloud, "4, 3, 2—."

Rangeman roulette—we pull the triggers of our rifles.

The smoke clears and we can tell it's all over except the partying. Ranger is smiling, all zillion watts. Ranger likes his NY baseball, even though he's more of a Yankees kind of guy. Lester and I smile back at him, I guess we have enough watts to light up Baghdad during an air raid. _Mission_ _accomplished, dudes. Let's go home._

Breaking news, film at eleven….._God, I hope not._

Ranger snaps his rifle case shut and looks up. He says, "Me too."

tbc

* * *

><p><strong>AN This is a real area of historic Brooklyn c.1800s. It is more gentrified now than it was even 4 5 years ago, but the ares are mostly the same-the Muslim neighborhood, the bonds offices by the jail, and so on. Brooklyn Heights, Cobble Hill, and Boerum Hill are charming and expensive white-collar neighborhoods filled with beautifully restored million dollar-plus "brownstones" or townhouses; Wall Street and the financial district are just across the river. You can see it "live" on Googlemaps: type in Court St and Atlantic Avenue, Brooklyn NY 11201.**


	8. Chapter 7 Get a Life

**Mercenaries R Us**

**.**

**previously: **_Breaking news, film at eleven…..God, I hope not._

_Ranger snaps his rifle case shut and looks up. He says, "Me too."_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6 ~ <em>Get a Life <em>**

**_._**

**_._**

_[POV - John Rosen, the journalist] _

_. _**_—_**

"**Rosen, I don't know** whether to sue you or kill you."

"Uh…."

"My lawyer says I can't sue you for calling me fucking beautiful so we both know what the other choice is, right?"

_Does he mean he's going to kill me?_

I tried to peer out my office door, hoping to see a security guard, but no.

"Look, Mr. Manoso, I'm sorry! I was just trying to give my readers a sense of who you are."

"Uh huh."

"And—well—"

"Yeah?"

This conversation was rapidly deteriorating.

**I'm John Rosen, a freelance writer for _Newsweek_**. I sat in my office looking at the three men who had arrived that morning. Besides Carlos Manoso there was a handsome and very large, very black man and another guy who was built more like Manoso, not huge but muscular and scary. All three wore black except the young blond guy who wore knee-ripped desert cargos with his black t-shirt. His cargos hung low homeboy style, exposing the top of Ralph Lauren boxers—I could see the woven-in logo on the waistband—and a few inches of an enviable set of 8-pack abs. His tanned stomach had a tribal tattoo and a diamond bellybutton stud. Manoso and the big guy were entirely in black SWAT fatigues, _nothing_ showing. All looked armed and dangerous.

I was sweating profusely.

Manoso made a miniscule gesture with his chin, motioning to the other men.

"This is Tank. He is my XO. Do you know what that means?"

"Yes, your second in command, your executive officer. He sees that your orders are carried out."

"_Yes." _

A pause while he let that sink in. I squirmed in my chair.

"And this is Anthony Stewart. He is —shall we say—a specialist..."

Stewart grinned, very scary. The black guy never spoke, never smiled, never budged. Only an occasional blink showed he was sentient and breathing.

Manoso went on. "Like me, Antonio is a _closer_, you know what I'm saying here, Rosen?"

"Uh….?"

"You let that get right by you, didn't you, Rosen? I told you the one thing you needed to know and you missed it. I told you I wanted to be a closer. I'm the guy who gets called in, high pressure situation—bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, World Series, and I save the game. Get it? Do you fucking get it?"

Actually, I was amazed. Yes. He had told me he wanted to be a closing pitcher—so to speak. But—

I said, "You distracted me by telling me you played golf."

"I do that too, man, that's the little game I play with the government, a little putting, a little driving. A birdie here, an eagle there. The always popular hole-in-one. A few bucks wagered, drinks at the club…."

The blond kid laughed. He said, "Ranger, give it up. Tell the guy you want him to apologize for making you look like an idiot, and let's go."

I looked at him and he smiled wide, great smile, movie star smile, Crest Whitestrip smile like Manoso's. And omigod he even has dimples, so cute!_ Am I getting gay here or what?_

I forced myself to focus and the guy made a mocking crossed fingers gesture, as if to ward off the evil eye and said, "Oh no. No no no no no. Don't even think about telling the world _I'm _beautiful. I'll definitely kill you. I make Ranger look like a big old pussy cat, you're a dead man."

He _was_ beautiful, though. Huh—the black guy was beautiful, too—like a huge gorgeous ebony statue. The blond man was young and buff, with golden brown skin—_racially mixed Latino_, I thought—_maybe half Caucasian._ Lighter than Manoso but not whitey-white. Pale naturally blond hair in dreadlocks; eyes dark as night, melting Latino eyes; fine features with a perfect straight nose and high cheekbones, and that mouth, that smile….. _He really looks a lot like Manoso,_ I thought again, comparing their features.

_Where are these guys coming from? Is it genetic? Environmental? Survival of the prettiest?_

Their reputed ESP kicked in and all three men narrowed their eyes at me. I cleared my throat nervously and said to Stewart, "What sort of a specialist did you say you are?"

He made a gun with his left hand and said, "Bang. I'm a closer, man."

Then he leaned closer to me and said softly, "And I'm top secret, I'm Need to Know, Eyes Only, I'm classified. So DO NOT even think about mentioning my name. Or describing me."

The menace in his voice was clear.

I asked, "What do you guys want from me?"

Manoso said, "I want you to write a follow-up where you apologize for saying I am too beautiful for—whatever."

"I'll look like an idiot, "I protested.

"Better you than me, Rosen."

"Look, Mr. Manoso, I'm sorry you didn't like what I wrote but you _are_ unusually good looking. You are maybe the handsomest guy I've ever seen, you didn't sue People magazine for saying you're hot, did you! It's not libel or slander if it's true." My voice was getting louder and a little squeaky. I took a calming breath and added, "And we'll both look like idiots if I write an apology! What'll I say?"

I was babbling and as I said the part about him being so handsome my eyes tracked to Stewart who was maybe just as fine. He gave me a mild but threatening death glare, telegraphing "hands-off-me". The third man, Tank, just radiated hostile vibes and sent eye fucks.

Manoso spoke patiently like he was addressing a very stupid and recalcitrant child. "You'll say you are sorry you trivialized a serious, reputable businessman by focusing on his person instead of his actions."

Stewart mouthed _reputable_ after Manoso said it and he and Tank both looked amused.

"You will say that you were shallow and demeaning, seeing only my—looks. You will apologize for "objectifying" me. I have a business to run, I work fucking hard, I am NOT a national sex symbol, Rosen."

Manoso looked a teeny bit pained and I finally realized that he was honestly upset that I had mentioned his appearance. Why? Surely he was accustomed to what he looked like? I mean, he looks in the mirror when he shaves, right?

I remembered my conversation with Eddie at the bar on 18th Street. I said, "Where do you guys come from anyway? What the hell is that like, looking like you do?"

"Get a life, Rosen."

They left. Thank god. I booted up my computer, starting a search for the blond guy. He'd be my next profile, I thought. I'd leave the big black guy alone for now. _Okay—hmmmmm_. Stewart, Anthony.

Fingers flew on the keyboard.

… …. …. …

**Out by the elevator bank, three young guys** stood waiting, grinning widely.

Stewart said, "That was fun."

The other two smiled some more.

The elevator door opened and the secretaries inside, confronted by the three dangerous looking men, stood in open mouth amazement. No one moved but the one holding all the files let go bonelessly and papers fell unnoticed all over the floor of the elevator. The doors closed and reopened. The women still just stood there.

Ranger said, "Jeez."

**tbc**

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reviewing! <strong>It means so much. If you don't review I think you don't want to read more and I don't post as often...so: it's up to you! Click the little button and say something. Anything. "Hi, sunny" is fine...lol. enjoy! **(PS Bec you all did such a lovely job of reviewing I am putting a special thank you chapter up, in Shelter From The Storm. Thank you all!, love sunny [it will take a few hours to show up, prob.])**


	9. Chapter 8 Quit While You're Ahead?

Mercenaries R US

.

.

Thank you all for the reviews! I knew you could do it!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Previously:<strong> "Get a life, Rosen."_

_They left, thank God. I booted up my computer-hmmmmm. Fingers flew on the keyboard._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight ~ <em>Quit While You're Ahead?<em>**

**_._**

**_._**

**_redux: _**_[adjective] re__newed, revisted, returned to._

_._

_I typed furiously..._

_**Mercenaries R Us Redux**__ by John Rosen_

**Today I was granted a rare opportunity** to revisit the realm of Rangeman Security. This time Rangeman came to me in the form of CEO Carlos "Ranger" Manoso, his second in command Tank No Last Name Given, and his special closer, a heavily armed young man who insisted he be un-named.

If I had been amazed and intimidated by Mr. Manoso alone, imagine how I felt confronted with all three of these men. These men call themselves reputable businessmen, but they are high priced thugs, enforcers, soldiers. Perhaps covert operators or assassins, too. I don't know and surely was not about to ask again. But I know they are lethal weapons—armed and dangerous. They are trained mercenaries who look as if they could kill or maim without thought or effort.

All three are amazingly, exotically, beautiful. It is as if employment by this company is based not just on ability or intimidation level but on good looks. These men are stunningly handsome; they could cause traffic jams on Manhattan streets. They look like film stars playing assassins, but I don't think they are playing. These guys are the real deal.

And so there they were this morning, arrayed in front of my desk here in _Newsweek's_ editorial offices. I made a mental list, appropriately with "bullets":

· Manoso—terrifying. Dark and mysterious. The hair, the eyes, the mouth—the famous smile. The _hero_ vibe.

· XXX—blond, adorable, looks just like Manoso only fair. Killer eyes, like dark chocolate.

· Tank—Big, his name says it all. Scary and big.

This is why Manoso visited me at my place of employment: He asked me to—apologize?—for mentioning in print that he is beautiful. But how can I apologize for reporting the facts? The public has _a right to know_ and no amount of intimidation will make this reporter change his story.

Scary? Intimidating? Lethal? Successful? Wealthy? Intelligent? Hardworking? Admirable? Heroic? Yes and again yes. But still—a man isn't chosen the hottest man in America, in the world, for no reason and like myself, my readers saw the CNN clips. Million dollar smile indeed, right?

[_A/N to Layout Dept: Lead-in with photo of M & S? &T?—from film / photo archives/CNN, People?_ ]

_By John Rosen, for Newsweek_

**… ... ...**

_the following week, when the new issue of Newsweek is published_

**Back at Rangeman**, Anthony's voice on the conference room speaker phone: "I'm gonna kill this fucker. He said I'm adorable."

The guys laughed.

…**.. ….. **

**Email from: _UPICKEM_IKILLEM[at]gmail[dot]com**

**Msg.:**

**Rosen you shit! you called me XXX. how lame. & said I was adorable.**

**Dude! **

**watch ur back.**

**XXX** :-)

…**. ... ...**

_a few weeks later_

"**Guess who called me** the other day?" said Ranger.

?

"That idiot Rosen at _Newsweek_."

Anthony frowned. "I thought you were gonna take care of him, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, right, like I'd take out some poor clueless civilian?" _For free?_

"Maybe you could just have another talk with him, shut him up, Ranger."

" I don't think so….."

Anthony said, "Maybe, like…um…"

?

"I could call him from my office, confuse the shit outta him?"

"You'll ruin your low profile, Anthony, we won't be able to guard you effectively if you get your face plastered all over the media."

"You're speaking from hard experience, my man?"

"What?" Ranger did his version of a frown which was a tiny furrow of displeasure between his eyebrows.

Anthony ignored the warning sign of the hard-voiced _what?_ and went on, "It would take the heat off you at Rangeman, it'll be worth the hassle."

"No. I can take the heat, the situation is my fault anyway, " said Ranger.

They lapsed into silence, staring at each other, locked wordlessly in debate.

?

?

?

?

"This is gonna be so _fun_."

Ranger sighed imperceptively and nodded little.

….. ... ...

"**Rosen, there's a call on line 3** for you, it's a Mr. Stewart's executive assistant from some S & M thing?"

Rosen thought, _That kid has a secretary?_ And picked up He said, "Rosen here."

An elegant voice with a faint British accent said, "Mr. Rosen, this is Danielle Grenville-Smythe for Mr. Anthony Stewart, please hold a moment."

The holding music was Jimi Hendrix : the guitar riff from _Purple Haze_…..

"Huh?"

"Yo."

"Hello?"

"Rosen, I told you to stay away from me, what part of _classified_ don't you understand? You want the CIA and Homeland Security looking up your ass?"

"Is this the Anthony Stewart I met a few weeks ago?"

"Dude!"

I couldn't help but wonder why this guy with the surfer-stoner voice had such a fancy-sounding secretary. _Maybe it's his girlfriend?_ I focused on the story instead and said, "Please consider meeting me? I will be very careful what I print…"

The boy's voice said, "Will you leave Ranger alone?"

"You have my word."

**tbc**


	10. Chapter 9 The Interrogation

**Mercenaries R Us**

.

* * *

><p><strong>previously:<strong> _"You looked_—_amazing. You looked—um—really hot. On CNN…..Will you be home soon?"_

_"….sure."_

_"Don't shower or shave."_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nine ~ <em>The Interrogation <em>**

**.**

_Stephanie_

**I came out of the bathroom** wrapped in Ranger's big terry robe, my hair in a Pebbles Flintstone topknot, my face all shiny and glowing with my new collagen cream.

"Eeek!" I yelled. Ranger was stretched out on our big bed, sound asleep, his arms flung wide, still wearing his Rangeman black utility cargoes and nothing else. He looked exhausted.

Unfortunately I was under the misconception that he was in XXX-istan again so my involuntary shriek slipped out and he woke up. It said nice things about our current relationship that he just opened his eyes, looked over at me and smiled.

Back in the day, he'd have rolled off the bed with his gun drawn. Guess he's getting used to me—to us.

His smile got wider and he was looking at my hair.

I said, "What!"

"You look like Woody the Woodpecker."

"Thanks a lot, hotshot. You look like a man who wants to sleep on the couch."

"Babe."

I faked a sad pout and said sadly, "Yeah, you think it's okay to tease me but it took me years to get over that time you said I looked like Smoky the Bear in my flannel nightgown."

"It wasn't you, babe, it was the flannel thing. And then you puked." [High Five?]

"Thanks for sharing that memory, Ranger."

"Later when I saw you in your little tank top and boxers I totally revised my opinion, babe. You were sitting on the fire escape in your undies, drinking a beer and sending death glares at poor Joyce Barnhardt. You were fucking adorable, babe, you looked hot."

And he told Joyce he was gonna ruin me for all other men. I tapped my finger on my chin and said, "Hmmm."

"Forgive me?"

"Oh okay." And I launched myself onto his hard body. He caught me and rolled me across the big bed, we were laughing, then we kissed.

I love it when Ranger comes home from a job.

…..

**Later, much** much later. "Ranger? Are you sleeping?"

"Hmmmm…"

"I have a hypothetical question…"

" Steph. I'm asleep."

"Just listen, okay?"

_Possible sigh. "_Go on." His breathing deepened, I figured he'd dozed off again. He had looked exhausted before our—reunion. I rambled on anyway, wide awake and overexcited.

"So here's the thing—If you were planning to recruit a guy for Black Ops or some other nefarious undercover job, wouldn't you choose some nondescript guy, some really nerdy insurance salesman type? And wouldn't you just give him a full complete really boring life, with lots of boring details. So boring in fact that people would be too bored to even bother to consider the idea that this guy is a—covert whatever."

"A covert, _nefarious_ whatever?" Ranger responded dryly. Okay. Not sleeping. Huh.

"Well, yeah. Or would you pick a guy who is so hot that people stop and stare. A guy who cannot do low profile just because of the way he looks, not even if he tries. And then would you let him be a well-know figure around town, someone everybody knows and no one forgets."

Ranger put one of his pillows over his face and groaned.

"And, oh yeah—he's a real mystery man, so he arouses everyone's curiosity. He drives expensive black cars, lots of them. He has a gang of thugs working with him, each man hotter than the next. Everyone wears black, everyone is scary. And it gets worse because after a year or so he's running a really successful security business with branches all over the country. But still, he's an enigma. People talk, people wonder—who _is_ that guy?"

I elbowed him in the ribs and add, "This guy who has his face and _million dollar smile_ plastered on every possible media outlet in the world?"

"Playing with fire, babe," he mumbled from beneath his fluffy down hiding place.

I finished up, "Does that sound like good spy planning to you? I mean, what's that all about anyway? Really?"

Ranger was silent. I waited because I had the feeling he was deciding how to respond, not refusing to answer.

Ranger took away the pillow and turned on his side to look at me. He said, "My guys aren't thugs." I rolled my eyes. "But, okay, Steph, your points are good. However it's not so easy to recruit people for Black Ops. Maybe the insurance salesman guy lacked the talent or ambition to be a clandestine operative. Or for all you know, maybe he actually _is_…."

_Whoa, really scary thought, Ranger._

After a moment he continued, "So '_they'_ use someone like me, someone who does have the necessary skills and is willing to do the job, and then '_they'_ create a cover to go with. So I was the ex-Army street thug, ghetto guy, bounty hunter that you met back in the day. But as it developed I needed more credibility and less hassle from guys like Morelli and I sort of morphed into the man who owns Rangeman. My cover still worked with that persona and I was able to actually pursue a real career, a business career, not just a covert operator's career. And so I had the best of both worlds. Or so I thought."

Ranger turned back onto his back and stared up at the ceiling for awhile. I amused myself while he was groping for words by admiring his profile—nice nose, really long eyelashes...and naked chest. Eightpack abs under mocha latte skin. It doesn't get much better, does it, ladies?

The silence got long and he looked a little sleepy again, so I prompted, "But?"

_Sigh._

"One problem was, or is, that I'd get tired of being ghetto Ranger and I'd slip into my more normal way of living and speaking sometimes."

"Like when you quoted the Carl Sandburg poem that time when my truck blew up?"

"Babe, your truck got taken out by a rocket launcher. But yeah. I hoped you'd forgotten that since so much else went down that night."

"I'd never forget."

"Babe."

"Or like how you thought it was normal for a 30 year old single guy to have live-in help and his sheets ironed and gourmet food all prepared and keep his car keys in a sterling silver dish. With flowers in a vase? Normal like that?"

Ranger looked vague. "Sheets ironed? " He did a miniscule head shake, quarter inch to the left.

I smiled at him and said, "Okay, Ranger, tell me the truth. It never even occurred to you that your sheets might _not _be ironed, did it?"

"Babe, I was in the army. And I've slept in _your_ bed."

"Yeah, but those weren't _your_ sheets. Anyway where were we….? Your cover was difficult because you like your sheets ironed and….?"

A small curl of the corners of his mouth, his tiny smile.

"It was also very hard because I formed an immediate attachment to you. I fell in love with Little Miss Nosy from the Burg who wouldn't give up and go away, and who I loved more and more each time we met. Despite the nasty cop boyfriend….

"And no way am I gonna drive shitty cars, not even for Uncle Sam. But it was okay. My cover is so tight that no one has ever penetrated my personal data. The cops and so on just have vague suspicions and if they try to follow up they get closed down real fast by someone higher up. So that's how and why 'they' recruit someone who—this is so weird—looks like I do."

I was feeling all warm and fuzzy 'cause he said he loved me way back then when we met. Even if he did call me Little Miss Nosy. I smiled at the gorgeous man next to me.

"You must know how hot you are. God knows the media has made it very clear!"

Silence, eyes back on the ceiling. I resisted the compulsion to look where he was looking—_omigod, did poor Ella miss an aerial dust bunny or something?_

Ranger said, "No, the ceiling is fine." Then, "It's different being on the inside looking out."

"Ranger, no one is _ever_ gonna feel sorry for you because you're not boring or nerdy. Or ugly. Or even nondescript. No way. Don't even go there."

Yeah I was laughing at him, just a little. Poor old Ranger, so freakin' pretty. I could hear my mom saying piously, _Well Stephanie, it is his cross to bear. God doesn't ever send us too big a burden, you know._

He smirked a little and said, "And I had one other characteristic that made me a good candidate for Black Ops."

_OCD?_ I thought snidely and the smirk turned to a grin. (obsessive compulsive disorder)

Ranger said, "No.''

"Then what?"

"An possible issue with any type of undercover work is that an operative may be swayed by the perks of their covert role, by money and luxury, that they can basically be bought. It's a real concern.'

"But not for you?"

"No, babe. _I_ can't be bribed or bought off. Despite Ranger Manoso's mercenary persona."

"Why not? Because you're a good guy?"

"No, babe. Because I already have more money than God."

Silence.

"That bank that Anthony—um, works?—for?"

"Rangeman makes millions. The family business makes—more…"

_This man is now my husband and the father of my child_, I thought. _And I love him to infinity and beyond. But I have no freaking clue who he is_.

I opened my mouth to say—to ask—and realized I was just doing a goldfish imitation, no words were coming out.

''Let's go to sleep, babe, okay? We can talk more some other time."

"Ranger?"

"Mmm?"

"You said you can't be bought or bribed. But can you be seduced?"

I brushed my breasts across his chest, my hair floating around us as my lips roamed down his body. He pulled me up to face him and kissed me hot and deep. His tongue ran over my upper lip then he bit my lower lip gently. Heat and desire flamed through my body.

He leaned back on the pillows.

"Sure, Steph. Try me."

**tbc**

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews, reviews...I do love reviews! And the next chapter is VERY interesting, people. so...?<strong>


	11. Chapter 10 Dream a Little Dream

**Mercenaries R Us**

**.**

_previously: From Rosen's Newsweek article:"I'll call him XXX—blond, adorable, looks just like Manoso only fair. Killer eyes, like dark chocolate._

**Chapter Ten ~ **_**Dream a Little Dream **_

.

_Stephanie_

**Anthony lay with his head in my lap**. I was unbraiding his dreads, for some reason he wanted them undone. I took my time, enjoying his fine cornsilk hair sifting through my fingers. We were watching a bad Vin Diesel movie in Ranger's living room. Zoë had been fed and changed and was now blissfully sleeping in her excruciatingly pink crib; the baby monitor was lined up on the coffee table, flanked by our cell phones, the TV remote and Anthony's guns.

Ranger was in town, he got home yesterday—but now of course he was out on a job. I tried not to let it bother me, but Ranger works the most ridiculous hours, sixteen hour days were his usual. As far as I had been able to determine in our years together, if Ranger was not sleeping or fucking, he was working.

_Having all those identities to juggle is so time-consuming_, I thought with a smidgeon of resentment.

Anthony glanced up at me, but said nothing. And a moment later his eyes returned to the futuristic car chase on the screen.

I used to think Morelli worked all hours as a busy TPD police detective. Ranger's schedule made Joe look like a piker, as my Grandpa Harry used to say before he left for twofer shooters during Happy Hour at The Pearly Gates.

As the movie climaxed I said to Anthony, "All done, sweetie."

He smiled. "Is it all kinky?"

"Yeah, a little….from the tight braids."

He reached up and twisted his top hair into a samurai knot, winding the hair in on itself so it stayed in place.

Only a man of Anthony or Ranger's looks could carry off such a silly style and look hot hot hot. He folded his arms and closed his eyes—like Ranger last night he seemed exhausted. I wanted to ask, _Where were you guys? What did you have to do? Are you okay with that? _And so on. But I knew better by now and kept my thoughts to myself.

But Anthony said sleepily, "It's fine, Steph. Don't worry. I'll always watch Carlito's back."

Damn their ESP! He read my mind even half asleep which I knew he was because he slipped and called Ranger _Carlito._

I smiled down at his profile and said, "Okay…but—tell me, what's the deal with this guy Rosen?"

"Like I said, Steph, I'll take care of it."

"You won't, um...?" _kill him, will you?_

_"_No! I'll just—take care of it._ No problemo."_

_Hmmm._ This time I stayed silent, feeling my eyelids gets heavy. I was almost asleep here too.

The movie finished and an old _Law & Order_ came on. The clock on the DVR thingy said 2.10 AM, I noticed, catching myself nodding off again. Absently I rubbed Anthony's chest and then his stomach. Even relaxed, lying on his side, he had a full hard set of 8 pack abs and my fingertips traced the bumps and indentations. My hand slipped under his wifebeater and my fingers caressed the ripe peach skin of his stomach, flicked the cold surprise of the navel stud he always wore, then followed the fine line of hair that went down to the waistband of his sweats. He reached over and covered my fingers.

"Steph…."

His black Spanish eyes met mine, deep pools in the dim light. He wasn't smiling now; he is often so very serious. His eyes were Ranger's eyes, his mouth was Ranger's mouth. He paused to gather himself, I think, then quickly, so fast I don't know what happened, he flipped us both so that his hard young body covered my own. I felt his breath on my cheek then his mouth touched mine. He gave me a chance to say _no_ but my body screamed _yes yes yes_ and we kissed.

I said, "Ranger?

"_No, es Antonio…."_

"But…?"

I was lost in his eyes and the feel of him, but as often happens in dream-states there was a weird shift in perception and I didn't know if I was kissing Ranger or Anthony, they had merged into one man in my mind. The TV lapsed into sleep mode and the room was darker. He reached between us and removed my little boxers and my hands followed suit, undressing him in turn. His skin felt like silk and velvet, his muscles rippled like a big cat's. I nuzzled his throat—he smelled wonderful, like Bulgari and Ranger. He was hot and hard—pleasure exploded in my sleep-fogged senses.

**When I woke up it was early morning,** dawn just breaking. Ranger was asleep next to me and we were in his big bed. His silky dark hair fell across his face and spread over the pillows. His mouth was soft and his lashes were dark crescents on his cheeks. We were naked, his hot hard body wrapped around mine. Despite his warmth I shivered. He cuddled me closer and mumbled, "We can sleep awhile, babe, I got in really late…you and Antonio fell asleep on the couch. "

Of course we did, that was all a dream, right? Or—The Twilight Zone?

**tbc**


	12. Chapter 11 Well You Asked!

**Mercenaries R Us**

.

* * *

><p><strong>previously:<strong> I couldn't help but wonder why this guy with the surfer-stoner voice had such a fancy-sounding secretary. _Maybe it's his girlfriend?_ I focused on the story instead and said, "Please consider meeting me? I will be very careful what I print…"

The boy's voice said, "Will you leave Ranger alone?"

"You have my word."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter Eleven ~ Well, You Asked!<strong>_

_**.**_

_**. **_

_Anthony_

_**Yeah, right. And like if I believe **that, this dude's got a bridge in Brooklyn he's gonna sell me._

But I said, "Okay. Tomorrow at —uh —2pm at Four Seasons, the Grill Room, late lunch."

"I'll be there, Mr. Stewart."

... ... ...

.

_John Rosen_

**John Rosen scrolled through third draft** of his newest exposé on the life and times of America's mercenary soldiers. He hesitated again over the words that he had self-censored, things he marked with brackets or dashes instead of the names the man he had interviewed had spoken. Rosen wanted to tell as much as he dared, yet was aware of his commitment to his source, his promise to respect his—their—privacy. Their _covert-ness_. Rosen wodndered briefly of that was even a real word, then gave a mental shrug._ If the word fits and so on..._

He pushed his reading glasses up his nose and gulped his Starbucks. And he began to reread his own words:

_**Merchants or Mercenaries - The new breed of American Soldier**_

_Part of an ongoing series about the new defenders of our American way of life._

_By John Rosen_

**The face of security in our country** has changed in the years since the tragic events of 9/11. Our government, in an attempt to make the phrase _Homeland Security_ a reality, has apparently become creative and willing to take unusual steps to ensure our safety here and abroad. The use of highly trained, independent operatives —mercenaries, if you will, has proliferated. It seems that it is actually cost effective, both in terms of human life and the almighty tax dollar, to pay these so-called private military firms to undertake the very dangerous jobs. These men may come from the military, they may work with or for the military or our alphabet intelligence agencies, but they are free agents, loyal but unhampered by rules of conduct, bought for big bucks.

On a cloudy Thursday in May I met one of these men for a late lunch at a famous, exclusive restaurant in Manhattan. I have agreed to keep his name secret, but I can reveal the substance of our conversation about his work.

The restaurant is very, _very_ plush, far beyond the means or experience of a reporter like myself. I walk in and give my name to the maitre d' who escorts me to my subject. I am trying to picture the somewhat thuggish boy in desert fatigues—whom I had met a few weeks previously—here in this poshest of settings. I am wondering how he so casually gets a table at a day's notice. Indeed I am surprised the maitre d' has even let him in.

The man in question is seated alone at a central table. He appears to be drinking plain water. He is wearing black.

Impressions: —Very expensive suit, Italian, perhaps bespoke Brioni. Deep blue shirt, subdued Hermes silk tie. The man wearing the elegant clothes is young and blond and beautiful. He is attracting attention even here in this upscale restaurant as people try to decide which film star or pop idol this young man might be.

He rose briefly, politely, and shook my hand.

As we waited for my drink order I looked at him some more. When I met him before he had been dressed in Abercrombie casual, t-shirt and ragged camouflage fatigue pants, with cornrowed hair. And weapons. Today he wore his hair loose and just swept back from his face, the casual elegance of a very expensive cut. His hair is silky straight, an unusual and rare pale blond that appears natural. He has light brows and long blond-tipped dark eyelashes and he has stunningly dark, deep, almost-black Latino eyes. I peg him as early to mid-twenties, mostly Caucasian mixed with some dark Hispanic heritage. His name, however, is relentlessly WASPy, though it might be an alias, who knows.

I glance around the room and notice a table nearby with two large Secret Service-type bodyguards. I am momentarily distracted, wondering who in this crowd they are guarding.

My man, I'll call him XXX or Triple X, says, "Don't bother looking. They're just my usual guys."

Rosen- You have bodyguards? How does that work? Why?

XXX- Is that a real question?

Rosen- Well, no, but can you answer it?

XXX- No.

After that less than auspicious beginning this is the conversation I recorded.

R- Tell me a little about yourself.

XXX- ?

R- What do you do exactly?

XXX- I'm a banker, I run my family's investment bank.

R- Bank?

XXX- Yeah. Not like checkbooks and loans for home improvements though, more like I underwrite high tech companies, public offerings, and so on. Venture capital. Hedge funds. Buy-outs. Economic emergency services.

"What?" I say rather stupidly.

XXX- Like you know, Greece?

R- I thought….well, go on.

XXX- My family owns_.

He mentions a very old and respected investment bank. It is similar to saying you own Fort Knox but more dignified. It explains the fine suit and the lunch locale, and I guess the bodyguards but does not begin to address his reputed real job.

There is a pause on the tape as I regroup from my shock. XXX watches me, wide-eyed, feigning innocence. When he is trying not to smile, his dimples show. He is so _cute!_

R- Surely that means you are personally worth—what—billions?

XXX- That's so crass, don't you think?

R- Tell me something about yourself, where did you grow up? Go to school?

XXX- I'm from New York. I went to_. [He names two elite East coast universities and one in California.]

R-Did you study business?

XXX- No, it's complicated. I have other interests that I pursued in college. I didn't expect to have to take over the day-to-day running of the bank…so soon.

I remembered as he spoke that his family's bank had been headquartered in the WTC. A light dawns in my brain.

R- Your father was_. [I name the well-known financier.]

XXX- (tiny nod)

R- How sad. How awful for you. Is that why you became a mercenary?

XXX- Do I look like a mercenary to you, Mr. Rosen? I'm a friggin' banker. The most I could do would be, like, bore someone to death.

He leaned back and smiled and his smile lit up the room, it was awesome. A tray of drinks crashed behind me, startling me.

XXX shrugged.

He was, as I have said before, very beautiful—beyond merely handsome, with his fine features and buff young body and million dollar smile. In repose his face was serious and intense; his aspect focused and intelligent. His speech alternated between stoner and Wall Street; his delivery deadpan, no inflection. He did have the aura of entitlement that might come from a background of great wealth and privilege, but this guy had an _edge_. Behind the stunning movie star looks was a lethal weapon, a trained sniper, a hitman, an assassin. He could dodge my questions but it was there, the killer eyes.

R- Does that happen a lot?

Referring to the dropped drinks tray.

XXX- Usually just to Ranger. (his associate-Rangeman Security's CEO Carlos "Ranger" Manoso) I try to, like, not smile in public, you know.

R- Do you want to continue our interview?

XXX- (looking briefly surprised)- Sure, go on.

R- I have to tell you, I am really quite stumped here. It's like hearing Paris Hilton or one of those Kardashian women say she is a hitman for the CIA.

XXX- Dude!

R- Do you have other family?

XXX- My mother is [name removed to protect privacy]. She's a painter. Um, pictures, not houses.

Pause.

XXX- What?

R- I am familiar with your mother and her work, she is very famous. I can't believe she has an adult son. What are you—24, 25?

XXX- I'm twenty-eight.

R- Really?

XXX- Yes really, dude, would I lie about my age? Give me a break.

R- You actually look like her, the hair, very beautiful…

XXX- _What_?

R- But your eyes, the mouth…. You look so much like Carlos Manoso, I can't believe you aren't related.

XXX- We're just friends, you know what I'm saying, man.

He smiles again and I hear gasps. He is so pretty that his smile distracts me from my questions and I just look at him.

R- Have you ever done contract work for Rangeman Security?

XXX- Like what? Nevermind, no comment.

R- Were you in the military? Special Forces? Delta Force?

XXX- No comment.

R- Are you a SWAT trained sniper?

XXX- uh.

R- Are you a mercenary soldier or an assassin, a gun for hire?

XXX- If my family owns_Bank, why would I need to, like, be a gun for hire, Rosen? Geez.

R- You were on ththat film with the President, very definitely . You are too distinctive to miss. And the CNN rescue tapes—You're the guy who walks in halfway through the clip, the guy in the camouflage shorts with the Ralph Lauren Hawaiian print boxers showing, and the diamond earrings. The guy with the sniper rifle and the Rolex watch.

XXX- Huh.

R- Sir?

XXX- No comment.

I look closely and see that he has a tattoo, just partly showing on his neck above his costly shirt collar. It curls up his neck behind his ear. That distinctive tattoo was censored on the film clips. Who ordered that? Who protected his identity in that way?

XXX- ?

R- No comment?

XXX- I guess not. I can't think of anything to say.

He looked at me and ate a bite of his $150 burger, sipped his water.

XXX- It's a mystery.

R- Why did you hesitate when I asked you about being a SWAT-trained sniper?

XXX- I wrote some computer programs, VR—Virtual Reality—that the cops use for marksman training. It is more cost-effective than using actual rounds. I wrote the VR in college. So I was thinking I trained _them_, they didn't train me…..But you know, like, uh—no comment, dude.

R- That's amazing.

Even now I m not sure if I meant the fact that he wrote the VR program used by police forces worldwide (I checked and yes he did), or that he managed to string all his stoner verbal twitches together in a single sentence. He took me a face value though—he was really quite well-mannered—and said,

XXX- No big deal.

He fell silent.

I thought he looked sad, or tired. Maybe leading a double or triple life is exhausting. He seemed less suavely verbal than his colleague, Carlos Manoso and he had no problem sitting in silence, his thoughts obviously drifting elsewhere, his eyes becoming dreamy. It was very hard to imagine this boy as the CFO of a major international banking fund.

R- What are you thinking?

I noticed that his bodyguards had become more alert as XXX spaced out. They were now watching him intently. They had ordered lunch and had food in front of them but neither man ate.

XXX- I'm thinking about the inherent chaos numbers sequence in analogical variations with encryptionalogical designations and growth embellishment algorithms.

R-_What?_

XXX- Hey, you asked. At MIT I studied encryption. I like math, it's what I think about. When I'm not thinking about getting laid. Uh-maybe you should take that last sentence out, dude.

**Part Two** will appear in next week's issue of Newsweek.

by John Rosen

* * *

><p><strong>tbc<strong>

**A/N-****Anthony's suit****-from Wikipedia****: **Brioni's 900 tailors create 200 models in different styles and sizes every year. A quarter of the production consists of made-to-measure tailored suits for an elite of 25,000 customers.

Each garment requires at least 30-35 hours of work, and there are more than 5,000 different fabrics to choose from. An off the peg suit costs about $5,000 at the entry-level; and most custom-tailored suits range from **$6,000 to $46,000.**


	13. Chapter 12 I Never Promised Not to Lie

**Mercenaries R Us**

**.**

* * *

><p><strong>Previously: <strong>_…he had no problem sitting in silence, his thoughts obviously drifting elsewhere, his eyes becoming dreamy._

_Rosen: -What are you thinking?_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 12 ~ <strong>_**Part One**_** : Meanwhile Back At…**_

_Anothony_

**Rosen's harping on that idiotic Presidential **publicity shoot distracted me and I caught a sudden wisp of Ranger on a dark tarmac runway somewhere, hot wind blowing. He was smiling….

Ranger was off on a brief but stupidly dangerous solo op in some 'stan place. He was hired to facilitate the insertion of a CIA agent who was masquerading as an NSA military intell guy whose cover was a JAG lawyer stiff into a tight but unspecified spot. No one is as adept as Ranger at slipping in, slipping out, like a ghost. But he only took this job, he said, because the operative was a friend.

In my ear one of my men's voices said, _Potential_ _tango at your 10._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Somewhere in 'Stan:<strong>_

_POV: CIA Operative James XXXX_

**I got off the plane in Kabul** hoping that CIA director Richard Ratraice had arranged my pick up. MPs were going around with clipboards herding the regular soldiers into groups for deployment. I knew they had no info or orders for me and looked around. My eyes landed on the figure of a man in light desert BDUs, arms folded, leaning against a new shiny black Hummer pick-up truck. Ah ha. Thank you, God. Or Ratraice.

He had provided me with the best of the best.

The man tilted his chin in a minuscule nod. I walked over. He said, "James."

I said, "Ranger."

Then I leaned forward in the darkness, trying to read the low-profile insignia on his uniform shirt. Yikes. Current combat patches for Afghanistan, Iraq, ARMY Rangers insignia. Delta insignia. And omigod, the full bird colonel eagles on the collar. He outranked me.

His name plate read: Rodriguez, A. J. Col. / SF-D.

_SF-D means Special Forces/ Delta_.

I said, "I thought you went merc."

"This is my disguise."

"Yeah, right. Nothing says undercover like an H2 pick-up with custom wheels."

Ranger said, "At least the air conditioner works."

"But…"

The white teeth flashed in the darkness. He said, "Don't think about it, you'll get confused."

"No shit, man. Oh by the way, did you remember the code word?" CIA loves its code words.

The smile again. "I don't need no fuckin' code words." Fake Mexican accent. Then, "Oh man, tight ass agency rules, right?"

And of course he had the secret code word. This was after all, Carlos Manoso.

* * *

><p><strong>Part Two ~ <em>I Never Promised Not to Lie<em>**

**previously: **_XXX- Hey, you asked. At MIT I studied encryption. I like math, it's what I think about. When I'm not thinking about getting laid. Uh—maybe you should take that last sentence out, dude._

_... ..._

_Anthony again_

**What—you thought I'd just sit here** and tell the whole truth, nothing but? Please. Why should I, why would I? I am Scheherazade in an overpriced suit, eating a mediocre burger and spinning my web.

Rosen looked slightly offended, mixed with confused. I motioned him to continue.

**_Newsweek_ article**~ Second installment

by John Rosen

Lunch was definitely over, I thought. This kid is a head case. Beautiful but loony. He reached into his inner coat pocket, I assumed to pay the check. As his jacket fell back I saw the _Brioni Coutura_ label and his double shoulder holster with the two matte black Glock pistols, just like Rangeman CEO Carlos Manoso had worn. I see that Brioni also tailors nicely for hitmen. The fine silk-wool blend fabrics seem to drape well over their armaments.

XXX pulled out a slim wallet and handed it to me. I opened it, suddenly expecting to see—what?—a badge? Or?

Instead inside were credentials with photo ID, Homeland Security Anti-Terrorism Task Force-US ARMY Special Forces/Delta Force Civilain Contract Agent*-AXXXX RXXXX SXXXX. Military rank of Major. Special Designation -"Weapons Specialist - Hostage Safety Operative".

On the facing sections of the wallet were extensive gun and weapons permits—federal and international, even NATO. International carry permits are almost unheard of nowadays, post 9-11. Those permits meant he could go armed—gun, knife, rocket launcher?—in any airport, on any plane, anywhere in the world. No questions asked. Or answered.

Then I glanced at his perfectly toned, trained body and had a notion that this man is innately armed and dangerous, no doubt highly trained in martial arts and unarmed combat. He is himself a lethal weapon.

Again I regroup and ask,

R- What's a hostage safety operative? Like a negotiator?

XXX- No. I'm a _closer._ I ensure the hostages' safety by taking out the bad guys. I am _not_ an assassin, Rosen.

_exactly. But still..._

R-How can you have an active military rank if you are also a civilian?

XXX- It is for military protocol, they love that shit, they salute and all, give orders. Me, I just hit my mark. One shot, one-kill. Baddabing.

I recognize the Green Beret slogan from the Vietnam War, now a universal sharpshooter code. And the _Sopranos_ reference.

R- If this is so classified, will you "get into trouble" for want of a better way to express it—by telling me?

XXX- Nah. Who they gonna call?

The reader must picture that this entire conversation is produced in a low-key, uninflected manner, as if we are discussing the weather or sports. "Hot enough for you?" "How about them Yankees?" or "I take out the bad guys." Same voice.

[_Anthony_: Gotta love these ear studs with the integrated comm function even if they do hover somewhere between hip-hop star and _oh man that is so gay_. I casually checked out the guy behind Rosen's shoulder. He was seated at right angles and I recognized the man as a UN diplomat of the Muslim extremist persuasion. I nodded faintly so my man would know we were wrapping things up. And I signaled for the waitress.]

_**Newsweek**_ aritcle continues:

He waved over the waitress and asked her politely to wrap his ''guys'" food to go. She looked at his mostly uneaten meal but said nothing. He thanked her softly and she left with the bodyguards' food.

We got up and walked out. I was relieved that I had not been given the check, but then I realized XXX had not paid either.

He smiled, only a little, so except for the screeching of brakes on East 56th Street, there was not much reaction.

XXX- I have a tab.

R- Of course you do. Can I ask you one more thing?

XXX- Sure.

R- What's it like to be so beautiful? I was scared to ask Manoso that but I really want to know. Is it awesome, do women fall all over you, what is it _like_?

XXX stood there in his $10,000 suit, armed to the teeth, blond hair gleaming in the weak light. His three karat diamond ear studs flashed tiny rainbows.

XXX is tall, slim, golden as a young god or mythic hero. His face is wonderful, fascinating—you don't know whether to focus on his dark eyes or his beautiful smile. He is beautiful beyond what can be expressed with words and perhaps, strange as it seems—like Carlos Manoso—part of his beauty is what lies within him, the heart, the mind, the soul, the bravery, the heroism. A young man of uncountable wealth who risks his body and his life for his country and our freedom.

XXX slipped on his mirrored sunglasses, shook my hand, finally said,

XXX- It's like _nothing_, it's like being a regular guy with annoying side effects. It's not important, it's just a shell. What matters is how you think, how you act, how you live your life. Having someone to love, who loves you back, who holds you in the deep, dark nights. It's not about being pretty—or adorable—or even rich. It's about being—one of the good guys.

He smiled, the zillion watt Manoso smile and he lit up the grey Manhattan day, turned and was lost in the crowd. The bodyguards clutched their doggy bags and hustled after him. They got in the (new shiny black) Escalade truck and were gone.

I guess he said it all, though.

Just another American hero. One of the good guys.

_by_ _John Rosen for **Newsweek**_

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><p>Email from AStewart-UPICKEMIKILLEMCFO S/M

Msg.: Rosen you idiot! you called me XXX AGAIN. you need to get out more, dude.

watch ur back.

XXX :-)

PS you forgot to ask me what sports I played in school. I only have 3 — golf, surfing, & hacking into classified websites. renaissance man, dude.

* * *

><p>Rosen thought, <em>Oh boy. <em>

Then he continued his search, this time on Tank Nolastnamegiven, Rangeman, LLC. He smirked. _These guys were turning into a franchise_.

**tbc**

**Thank you for reviewing! Love,love, love reviews, people, so...? **

**sunny**

**:-]**


	14. Chapter 13 And So It Goes

**Mercenaries R Us**

**.**

a/n Tank's interview with Rosen is at the end of Chapter 12, in The Price is Right. Yes, it took Rosen four long years to corner Tank, and yes Ranger alludes to the interview anachronistically in The Math Teacher, which takes place around the time of this current story.

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><p>an If you've been enjoying my fics here you are very welcome to come read more stories on my Mercenary Ranger blog, where I have posted stories not available here, and photos for some of my ff stories posted here. I'd love it if you left me a note after your visit... enjoy:

http:/ / mercenaryranger[dot]blogspot[dot]com

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><p><strong>previously: <strong>_What, you thought I'd tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but? —_

**Chapter 13 ~ _And So It Goes_**

**_._**

_Stephanie_

_._

**"Ranger? "**

**"Yeah, babe?"**

**We were in our bedroom** at Haywood Street. I sat on the big, wonderful bed watching Ranger unpack his duffle.

I said, "You know how in that interview that guy Rosen asked you if Ricardo Carlos Manoso is the name you were born with?"

"Uh huh." Ranger dumped a pile of light cammo fatigues into the hamper for Ella to wash and iron.

"And you said _No comment._"

"Yes."

"And when we got married that was the name on the marriage certificate. And on Zoë's birth certificate."

He turned at looked at me, locking eyes, trying to read my mind. He said, "Where are you going with this?"

"Well I'm thinking how your family all call you _Ranger_, even your mother calls you _Ranger._ A few people who know you well in your current life call you _Carlos_, okay, and sometimes Anthony slips and says _Carlito_….But basically everyone close to you uses your street name."

"And?"

"And so I'm married to a man whose name I don't really know, right?"

"Babe, let's not go there. The Carlos Manoso name is good, really."

"RANGER!"

Okay, yes! I yelled at him.

"Babe, you'll wake up Zo…."

"Why do you have six passports in your safe?"

"Did you look at them?"

"No! But I saw them when I put my rings inside—which you told me was okay to do, so obviously you weren't really hiding them."

"Right…"

He walked to the wall safe and opened it. Pulled out the stack of passports and handed them to me.

"Go ahead, snoop all you want, babe."

I held the small stack of his identity in my hands, my head bent as I studied the top cover, blue with US logo. I looked up at him.

"Would you prefer I didn't look?"

He did his tiny shrug and made a _whatever_ gesture with his hands. He sat down next to me on the side of the bed and said, "Go ahead, Steph. You're my wife, if I didn't want you to see them, I'd have kept them somewhere else. I have no secrets from you, babe. Really."

There was a blue US passport for Ricardo Carlos Manoso, DOB the one he'd told me. There was a black diplomatic passport for Carlos Manoso, same photo, same birthday.

There was a US military passport with a military photo ID card tucked inside for Carlos Manoso. It was current, same DOB. It showed Ranger as a civilian attached to Spec Ops/Delta, military rank Colonel.

"Hmmmm…."

I continued my _snooping_.

There was a passport for Richard Manning, different DOB, Ranger's photo. Two more: another black diplomatic passport with a Spanish sounding name—Frederick Rodriguez; one with an Arab-American name—Muhammed al Ibrahaim. Different birth dates. The birth years were all the same, making him age thirty. All the passports had stamps. The very false name ones had less stamps than the Manoso ones which I presumed he usually used.

I looked at him.

"None of these is your real name, is it, are they, I mean?"

"You know what I do, don't go there."

"Ranger!"

We did a long stare-out. Yippee! I finally won, because this one ended in a Ranger sigh, meaning tiny but heartfelt. He got up and opened his locked gun drawer. He lifted out the felt-lined bottom and withdrew two more passports. One was blue, a US passport. The other was green. Slowly he extended them to me.

I asked again, 'Do you want me to refuse to open these?"

"Do you trust me, babe?"

"Always, Ranger. Completely. Forever. I love you."

"But?"

"Color me frivolous but _**I want to know your name!" **_I took a shaky breath. "I want—need—to know the name of my baby's father."

"Babe, I've been Carlos Manoso for years, I'm used to it, it's my name. It's the name on my military record. When we got married I never even thought about anything else. I really wasn't trying to deceive you…but go ahead, check 'em out."

I slowly opened the US passport. Despite his words it was up to date though unused. His photo was in it, his wonderful smile and dark eyes, short hair. Recent.

I opened the other passport. It was a British Commonwealth/Cayman Islands Passport. Same Ranger photo. This one was used. Both had a February date of birth, not August like he'd told me.

The name was, of course, a name I had never heard before.

"Is this your real birthday?"

"It's _his_ birthday. My birthday is August 12, just like I told you."

"How do you recall the different other birthdays?"

"Practice, babe."

"This is really confusing."

"I know, babe, that's the point."

I looked at him picturing him with this other name. It was silly but it made me see him as less ethnic, less Latino, more American. This man played golf, drove a Mercedes, wore LaCoste golf shirts, went to Harvard—yeah, I thought I'd met him a few times, he slipped out from behind the Carlos Manoso façade once in awhile.

"Omigod, even when you're being yourself you're undercover."

Tiny non-shrug.

'What's the deal with the Cayman Islands passport?"

"That's for business and taxes. If you keep enough money there you can get a passport, dual citizenship thing. The Caymans are all about money, you know. Like Switzerland." _Only hot and sunny._

I handed the passports back to him. It seemed really schizophrenic to me, I'd be so confused. I looked at him closely, the wonderful body, his beautiful, dear face, the mocha skin and black eyes…. I sighed.

Ranger said, "Well?"

"Uh….."

"C'mon, babe. Talk to me."

"It suits you, especially when you're dressed in golf clothes."

"Babe."

He pulled me to my feet and hugged me. I let myself relax into his safe, warm embrace for a minute, then said, "Ranger?"

?

"If someone calls you that name—do you answer?"

"No."

* * *

><p><em>Ranger<em>

.

**I watched Steph's face carefully**. Had she bought it? Would the story hold, did she—_believe _me?

I saw nothing but love on the face of this woman I loved so much. I saw no doubt at all in her clear blue eyes. I silently thanked God or whomever for giving her to me, for letting her into my life. And all my personas heaved huge sighs of relief.

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><p><em>Steph again<em>

.

I watched Ranger put away all his passports. He locked the gun safe and the regular safe, glancing at me as he finished.

I smiled at him and said, "I love you, Ranger."

_Or whatever your name really is…._

**The end**

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><p><strong>Please review! <strong>I hope you enjoyed my story! I'll be back soon with a new Mercenary Ranger fic.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed and bookmarked, and especially to those who took the time to send PMs with comments and questions. I ve enjoyed our chats! Again, many thanks for each review...

love

sunny


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